Spring Ingredients I’m Loving

Spring ingredients have completely taken over my kitchen lately. From vibrant greens to strawberries that somehow always end up in my cart, this season has shifted the way I shop, cook, and even think about food.

Spring Showed Up, and I Stopped Planning 

It’s been a rainy few weeks in Austin. Like, really rainy. The kind of rain that makes you cancel your plans, brew another cup of coffee, and just… look out the window. And honestly? I’ve been okay with that because what I’ve been looking at has been worth every canceled errand. 

My neighbor behind me started planting her vegetable garden back in January. I watched her out there in the cold, turning soil and making plans, and I thought — good for her, truly. Fast forward to now, and that garden is absolutely bursting. Lush, green, overgrown in the best possible way. Every morning, I wander to the back of my yard and peek over our little chain link fence to check on her progress. I want to be clear: I am not being weird about it. The fence is tiny. She basically invites the viewing. I’m just an appreciative audience. 

It has become the highlight of my day, and I think that says something about spring. 

The Ingredients I Keep Pulling Off the Market Shelf 

Greens have completely taken over my world lately. Every time I walk into the H-E-B, I end up with arms full of broccoli, kale, asparagus, and more strawberries than any one person probably needs. There’s something about the way spring produce just looks — that saturated, almost aggressive green — that makes me reach for it without thinking. 

Asparagus in particular has been calling to me. Which is a problem, because I genuinely cannot figure out how to cook it right. I’ve tried. Multiple times. Multiple methods. And every time I end up with something that’s either squeaky or sad. But I keep buying it anyway, hoping this will be the time I crack the code. It hasn’t been the time yet. But I remain optimistic. 

What Cooking With Them Does to My Brain 

Here’s something I’ll just go ahead and admit: I don’t actually like bitter things. Kale, arugula — no thank you. I know they’re good for me. I’ve heard the speech. I still don’t want them on my plate. A bitter arugula salad has the power to put me in a genuinely bad mood for the rest of the meal, and I refuse to apologize for that. 

But photographing them? That’s a completely different story. The bold, dramatic color of a good bunch of kale or a pile of dark leafy greens does something to me visually that I cannot explain. It’s this rich, moody, almost confrontational green that I am absolutely obsessed with putting in front of my camera. So yes. I will not eat it, but I will absolutely light it beautifully and spend an hour composing it. That is the contradiction I live in, and I’ve made my peace with it.

The Shoot Ideas That Started Forming in My Kitchen 

I went through a kale chip phase a while back. Buying it by the armful, baking pan after pan, convinced I was really onto something. Then I had lunch at a brunch spot, ordered their kale chips, and I need you to understand that it was a life-changing experience. Lacinato kale chips, topped with parmesan shavings, pine nuts, olive oil, a drizzle of truffle oil, and just the faintest hint of sweetness. I left that restaurant and drove directly to HEB. Bought several bunches of kale — which is not cheap, by the way — grabbed all the ingredients, and went home to recreate the whole thing from memory. 

That restaurant has since taken it off the menu. I’m still not over it. 

But now I keep thinking about what it would look like as a photograph. The kale chips piled up, pine nuts scattered everywhere, parmesan shavings draped across the top, olive oil pooling in all the right places, shot straight down from above. Wouldn’t that be something? I think it would be really, really pretty. 

This Season Has Me in My Feelings, and I’m Not Sorry 

Maybe it’s the rain. Maybe it’s the staying up too late scrolling through nothing. But spring has me feeling a certain kind of way, and I’m not trying to shake it. 

Part of me is completely over the humidity. I want the full Texas summer heat to just arrive already and commit. But another part of me — the part that peeks over the fence every morning — is not ready to let this go. My neighbor’s garden is thriving. My backyard is full of what is mostly weeds, but looks lush enough that I’m choosing not to investigate too closely. Everything is green and soft and temporary, and I think I just want to stay here a little longer before the dust bowl sets in. 

Spring didn’t ask me if I was ready. It just showed up, and somewhere between the asparagus I can’t cook and the kale I won’t eat but keep buying, I stopped planning and started paying attention. That feels like exactly the right way to spend a season.